


Beloved Stranger

by Calleva



Category: The Musketeers (2014)
Genre: Alternate Universe, F/M, Romance, Time Travel
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-04-07
Updated: 2019-04-07
Packaged: 2020-01-06 06:29:00
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 6,863
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18382853
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Calleva/pseuds/Calleva
Summary: "I am... alone"Friendless and out of schemes, the Comte de Rochefort meets his end at D'Artagnan's sword..... Or does he?The universe decrees otherwise and transports him from 1630s Paris to 21st century USA where he is found, severely wounded, by a young student. Can the arrogant Rochefort come to terms with the modern world? Will his obsession with Queen Anne prevent him from finding happiness elsewhere?Prelude to 'City of Lights'.





	1. Chapter 1

Her beloved face was the last thing he saw before fading... The wound deep, deep in his gut was now beyond pain. Why couldn't she see that everything he'd done was for her?  
"I am alone...." His life was ending, and no one seemed to care. Everything he'd suffered, endured, fought for, had been for her alone. _Alone_....

The watchers moved away, ignoring the slumped figure of Rochefort, his still-open eyes gazing at infinity. There was too much else to discuss. D'Artagnan, whose sword had pierced the First Minister, looked back and said "Your majesty, where else in France could one find such excellent servants? They have already removed the corpse."  
"He should be put in an unmarked grave, so no one will remember him." Queen Anne felt only relief that she was safe from that dangerous, besotted man.

* * * * *

"I - am - quite - alone" His eyes, still open, dimly registered the slowly changing scene. Green, shade and sunlight....  
"No you are _not_ alone. Stay with me!" A woman's voice, urgent and strong, demanded his attention. She didn't sound like the Queen. He focused his vision and found himself looking into two large brown eyes. Definitely not Anne.  
"Who - are - you?"  
"My name is Amy - lie still, I'm going to try to staunch the bleeding, then I'll call for help." 

It didn't look good but she remembered that one should be positive when assisting a badly injured person.  
"Where am I?" His vision, sharp again, suggested to him that he was in a forest, lying on the soft floor. His enemies must have left him for dead, hoping wild animals would dispose of him. Not even a grave!  
"More to the point, who are you?" Amy busied herself about ripping off part of his shirt, balling it and pressing it into the leaking wound in his abdomen.  
"You may call me Rochefort." He wheezed and began to cough.  
"Don't talk, try to stay calm. Help is coming."

If it weren't for his air of authority - and let's be honest, his very handsome face - Amy would have queried his name and costume. He was dressed like a character in an opera. Clearly the man had been in some cosplay activity which had gone seriously wrong and he'd been left to die by people too cowardly to face charges. He would have died, certainly, had she not come along.

* * * * *

Nurse Roberts was confused. The newly-admitted man with the gut wound wasn't raving but he still called himself the Count of Rochefort. Only he had pronounced it funny: 'caunt de Roshfor'. The woman who brought him in had spelled it for her and explained it was French. 

Dr Chris Morgan appeared from surgery and handed her the man's notes "He'll be fine with a good dose of antibiotic. He's had incredible luck - the blade seems to have missed a number of vital organs, and he was found by a person with some medical knowledge." The doctor paused "He doesn't appear to have insurance."

* * * * *

Unwilling to leave, Amy set up camp in the waiting room. She popped out briefly for a wrap and a newspaper to read while Rochefort was still in surgery. Now would be a good time to take up smoking, or at least pace up and down like expectant fathers on TV. Having found the blond stranger she felt a strong desire to see him pull through. Plus, there was something compelling about the injured man. It wasn't just that he was cute, and walking about in that uniform he must have been totally swoonworthy, but he had a presence about him. As if he were indeed a French nobleman born to order cohorts of servants around. She could picture him riding back from 'la chasse' to his chateau. But no, he'd have a carriage to take him to the chateau, and a hunting lodge for after the hunt. It would have antlers on the panelled walls... Whoever he was, he was diligent in his cosplay. His uniform was finely detailed - even to the slightly worn button holes and the magnificent rapier at his side. "Come on Amy" she told herself firmly, "he's probably a filing clerk during the week. However good he looks, he's not Prince Charming."

 

After handing the notes to Nurse Roberts, Dr Morgan went to speak to Miss Fielding, who was still patiently waiting several hours later. "He'll live but I'm not sure it is best for you to visit him yet. He's very confused, still insisting that he's a French aristocrat. He tried to attack the nurse inserting the drip in his arm claiming she was trying to stab him. He's been strongly sedated and won't make any sense. I suggest you call in tomorrow, if you still want to see him."

* * * * *

_The Following Day_

The clip board at the foot of his bed made interesting reading. "Charles Rochefort, d.o.b: 17th November 1597. Blood type A+. Nil by mouth." Someone had a sense of humour at least; the guy was over four hundred years old and, despite his pallor, looked very good on it.

"I don't understand any of this." His voice was still a bit slurred from the sedation. Amy, seated in the visitor's chair, felt a pang of compassion. His look of puzzlement seemed quite genuine as did his unease at his surroundings. Tentatively, because he had earlier tried to throttle a nurse bending over him with a syringe, Amy put a hand over his.  
"Tell me," She said softly.  
"One minute I'm in the Louvre, having lost the fight with the Musketeers, and the Queen is staring down at me, watching me die. Then I'm in a forest and you are there..... telling me I'm not alone. It is a terrible thing, to be alone, to die alone." His eyes took on a faraway look as if he were still in a gilded room with tapestried walls and stuccoed ceilings.

He was by far the best actor she'd ever come across so she'd just have to humour him. "It must have been dreadful, the loneliness, but you aren't alone now and you won't be ever again. Look, I know it's annoying for someone of your rank, but they do need some details about you. These people are on your side, they want you to get well. But if they could at least have your social security number..."  
"I have told them all they need to know. I am the Comte de Rochefort, and I don't have a number."

Perhaps it was best to change the subject before he became too agitated.  
"So what led you to starting a fight in an art gallery?" Amy asked.  
"I didn't exactly start it - and what's an art gallery?" He sighed impatiently "As I told you, I was at the Palace. I would be grateful if you could tell me where I am - and why you are dressed like a young man." His blue eyes held pain but they now looked straight at her, and had an almost searing quality.  
"You are in a hospital in the United States of America and it is the year two thousand and nineteen. Women wear long trousers and have the vote. Witches no longer get burned and some even work as doctors. We can travel in machines that fly in the air and almost no one dies in childbirth any more. Many diseases you would call fatal we can cure. But there is still no cure for loneliness or grief."  
"I need to think on this further. Mademoiselle Aymie," he faltered at her name, "do people in this time travel to different eras?"  
"No, it's been shown to be impossible. Where did you obtain your costume? It's very realistic."  
"My tailor," The hint of sarcasm was unmistakeable.  
"So is there anyone who can collect you when the hospital discharges you?" Amy had a mental image of him climbing into a sedan chair carried by liveried flunkies in powdered wigs.  
"As I've already told the man in white, no there isn't. You could always hand me back to the Spanish I suppose." His lacerating tone suggested that this would be unwelcome.  
"Very well, unless you have any other preference, you had better come home with me."

Why did she say that? It was true, she had felt a strange connection to this man ever since she had found him in the forest. He was tetchy and mistrustful, but she found it impossible to be afraid of him. Even so, was she really going to have a deranged man in her apartment, someone who insisted he was milord from the seventeenth century?

* * * * *

Her mind raced as she walked to her car. She'd spoken to the hospital about the wisdom of taking him home with her. Can insane people consistently pass themselves off as sane? Surely by now he would realise there was no point in continuing the charade? Anyone as intelligent as he clearly was would have handed over their insurance details fast. All the same, his life had been saved by good surgery and antibiotics; he had nothing more to gain from this charade and much to lose.

Unless..... it wasn't a charade. Ridiculous! She was a scientist and this was in the realm of fantasy. But... the hospital had confirmed there was no BCG scar or fillings in his teeth. One of the nurses who did cosplay had said that his costume had been entirely hand-sewn and his rapier well-used. Amy wondered what kind of wear and tear it had been subjected to. 

She was reaching for the handle of the driver's door when she stopped stock still. He _had_ been in a palace! The Louvre was a palace before it was an art gallery! _Oh stop, Amy, this is ridiculous. It's not just him who is insane_. Any good re-enactor would know about the Louvre. Yes, but taken altogether.... Could he really have been transported through a portal in time to our present day? 

Either he was telling the truth or he was insane and probably incurable - and dangerous. They were running a DNA check; if he were a criminal he might appear on police records. Local re-enactment groups had all confirmed that they had no one of his name, and no one who dressed as a seventeenth century French count. If he were a cosplayer, he went solo.

She found herself wondering what his resting face was like, when his eyes weren't wary or stressed. What would his smile be like? _Damn!_ She put the key in the ignition and the car came to life.


	2. Chapter 2

Chinos and a blue shirt. He'd have to wear his boots until he was fitted with shoes. Amy pulled a multipack of cotton socks from the display. This fitted a variety of sizes and she figured he had average sized feet or she'd have noticed. What about underwear? He needed some, so she'd have to buy that next. 

With her purchases tidily packed, she headed for the hospital.

Even after several days, it was still difficult to believe the blond stranger was from another era. The most telling evidence against him was his ability to speak English without an accent - and only occasional lapses into quaintness. The facility with modern language only happened in fictions such as Doctor Who or Star Trek. When she asked him how he came to speak present-day English so well he admitted he didn't know. He could understand what she was saying unless she referred to some aspect of modern life outside his experience. He could also speak French but Amy suspected that this was from his own time.

But everything else about him was inexplicable. She had decided to talk to him as if he were in fact telling the truth. He had been so full of questions it was impossible not to. He listened patiently and exclaimed 'impossible!' or 'surely not!' at her responses. His first query had been about weapons - what cannons did they have in this time, and what was their capability? Wisely, Amy had evaded this topic. Then he had been especially fascinated by modern astronomy and telescopes which can see deep into what he called 'the heavens'. She found herself playing along so much that she promised to take him to DC to see the moon dust in the Air and Space Museum. "I should like that very much." he had replied solemnly.

Mindful of her threats about how the modern world treats people who act aggressively to service personnel, Rochefort stood meekly in his blue shirt and chinos (she had been right, the blue shirt brought out the colour of his eyes) and checked out without a hitch. He even let them take him to the exit in a wheelchair. 

"So this 'car' is something you can control?" He walked around her small car, peering at it warily.  
"I passed my test a while ago. It's not the swishest automobile on the road, but it's all mine, and yes, I am safe to drive it." Amy paused and then added, "Women can drive as well as men. It's not a strength thing." Amy had brought a suitcase for his 'costume', zipping in the rapier with just the handle showing, and this she stowed on the back seat. It had been a struggle to persuade the hospital staff that the 'dangerous weapon' was in fact just for decoration. Rochefort got in beside her and let her help him with the seat belt. "I could see you behind the wheel of a Ferrari." She mused. Somehow, even in modern clothes, Rochefort had an air of someone used to fine living, as if he should rightly be sipping bellinis on a terrace at a five star hotel in the Cap d'Antibes. 

It was lunchtime so they headed to a local Cracker Barrel. As Rochefort was scanning the menu a waitress approached them.  
"My name's Melissa, what can I get for you today?"  
"You are a serving wench at this tavern?" Rochefort said before Amy could speak. "I should like a platter of roast boar and a tankard of ale." He looked across at Amy and checked himself, "I'm sorry, that was rude of me. My lady companion will order first."  
Amy took charge, "We'll have the vegetable soup; diet coke for me and apple juice for my friend."  
As the waitress left Amy muttered, "Leave the talking to me, please Rochefort. And the hospital said only soup at first, remember?"

Rochefort was not impressed by Amy's choice. He dunked his spoon into the soup and lifted it, letting the contents slop back into the bowl. "If I must eat pottage, I suppose it will do. But peasant food is not what I crave. I need meat to regain my strength."  
"Later you can have it, but not yet." Amy thought hard. It was possible to get wild boar and venison from specialty butchers, she might be able to give him a taste of home.

The second stop on the way home involved visiting a place Amy had never been inside before, and she had a sinking feeling about going in now. "Stay here, I'll only be gone a minute."   
But he had already undone his seat belt and was climbing out of the car. Her heart sank. "Well if you must, but it is forbidden to touch any object inside this, um, establishment. Serious penalties for transgression."

He nodded and followed her into the gun shop. 

"I have been advised to get a locking safe for your weapon." Amy told him quickly, "So I'll just buy it and we'll get out and head home. I expect you are interested to see where you will be staying."  
Hastily, with a fascinated Rochefort trailing behind her, Amy marched up to the counter and asked for an inexpensive safe. The purchase took only a few moments but when she looked round, Rochefort had wandered away and was now peering intently at a semi-automatic rifle behind a glass case. "And this musket fires how many times a minute?" he was asking an assistant.  
"No, Rochefort!" Amy hissed quietly at him, "We are not looking at guns! We need to go - NOW!"  
He gave her a catlike grin, "'Serious penalties'? There are people everywhere handling these weapons. Why can I not do the same?"

An assistant approached, carrying a shotgun. "This baby can do five hundred rounds a minute, sir, suitable for all your defensive needs."  
"I like this one -" He pointed to the glass case.  
"Excellent choice, the AR-15 is the weapon of choice for home defence and hunting...."

"Thank you, but we need to think about it first." Amy hooked her free arm through Rochefort's and pulled him towards the exit. "Fortunately you don't have any money" she muttered under her breath.  
With Rochefort still protesting, she got him into the car and slammed the passenger door shut. 'I must see about the child locks' she told herself.


	3. Chapter 3

Since bringing Rochefort back to her flat to convalesce, Amy had been trying to catch him out as a re-enactor. Her college library had an extensive history section and she found herself ignoring botany and etymology in favour of seventeenth century French history. Jotting down fact after fact, she smiled to herself, thinking she would eventually trap him. 

But she never could. Not only did Rochefort answer her questions with complete accuracy, he often added detail which was in none of the books. That didn't make it fact of course, but there was often a ring to it which she found intriguing. He came out with snippets of court gossip which didn't amount to any great revelation, but which he claimed to be absolutely true. On the facts she could discover, he was always correct. His confident smile indicated not a jot of self-doubt. Occasionally he had to think before replying "I can't be expected instantly to remember everything your historians think important." He rasped in his husky voice.

Socially, Amy wasn't sure her guest was ready to mix with the people she knew.  
"Some time ago I invited some friends round for a drink next Friday. Look, you can go into your room and avoid them, just for one evening. It would save a lot of explaining."  
Rochefort looked up from the TV show he was watching. "I think I can handle your student friends." He gave a small sigh, refilled his wine glass and went back to watching 'The World at War'.  
"I don't know - you've been here almost a month but modern life is still new to you. I'd be easier if you didn't meet anyone I know just yet."  
"In that case I will go out. But first, I need to sell one of my rings. I can stop off at the French restaurant on the way back and buy myself something to eat. The walk will do me good, and the meal certainly will."  
Amy thought for a moment. "I'd like to come too - in case anyone tries to rip you off. Your rings have good stones and must be worth a good deal. We'll drive across town to this ritzy jewellers I know that sells secondhand jewellery."

The 'ritzy jewellers' tried to look nonchalently at Rochefort's ring, but their excitement was obvious as they authenticated it as a genuine seventeenth century piece. Rochefort filled his new wallet with a bundle of high value notes.  
"They have many treasures here - none so exquisite as my ring of course, but even so, it's a fine place." Rochefort observed.  
"I'm glad you like it, I've always loved just gazing at all the bits and pieces, wondering who owned them and why people parted with them." Amy peered into one of the cases full of delicate old jewellery.  
"This is a strange design." Noted Rochefort, staring at a gold and onyx pendant.  
"It's art deco style, about eighty years old. Perhaps the last really glamorous era."  
"Not sure I like it." He muttered. "Oh look, there's your name."  
He indicated a small brooch of no great value; the silver plating had all but rubbed off. It spelled 'Aimée' in delicate script.  
"No my name's A-M-Y."  
"Perhaps in your barbarous tongue, but in my language, it looks like this," he pointed to the brooch; "Aimée, which means 'loved'. That is what your name means."  
She frowned, "True, but this is America, buddy, not St Germain en Laye".  
He smiled to himself, as if reminded of something - or someone? Amy found her heart faltering; was he thinking of someone he had loved and left behind? A man this attractive was bound to have had lovers.

Rochefort was quiet in the car; he still asked questions about what he saw, but otherwise he seemed calm. Perhaps having money again made him contented.  
"What is that building? It has a large signs across it."  
Amy glanced sideways through the passenger window. "That's the cinema. They show movies like the ones you see on TV but on much bigger screens. We could go one evening if you want."  
"I should like to see the one they are offering now."  
Amy slowed and peered backwards. "That's 'Gone with the Wind'. I suppose you saw the cannon on the picture. Yes, why not? The long dresses and weapons would be more recognisable to you, even though they aren't your era."

That would solve his restlessness she thought. Increasingly, Rochefort wanted to go out, he was used to a higher level of activity than he had at present and was interested in everything. His wound was healing well and his energy was returning. The French restaurant and cinema were in walking distance, he might enjoy the exercise.

"Tonight I am paying," he assured her as they headed out that evening on foot. It was still quite early so there were plenty of spare tables at Chez Gerard. Rochefort waved away the menu and ordered for them both. Amy knew that many women liked this, but she wasn't sure she did. However when she tasted the Chateaubriand with béarnaise sauce Amy almost purred with pleasure.  
"So this is how you ate at Fontainebleau?"  
He gave a little shrug, "I studied the menu a while ago. I'm not sure anyone here could replicate the dishes I am used to. Tête de veau, for example. Also food was prepared for much larger numbers."  
"I hope you have come to like what the twenty first century has to offer, anyway." Amy felt relieved that it wasn't she who had time travelled - she didn't fancy the idea of eating a calf's head.  
"Mmnn" He responded, savouring the fillet steak. "And the wines too, they are a different style, but quite delicious."

It was easier, Amy reflected, to take Rochefort into more crowded places. He didn't stand out so badly and in modern clothing no one would notice anything unusual, as long as they did not talk to him for any length of time. Even there, he was learning to speak in neutral terms. Maybe he could cope with her friends on Friday night?

At the cinema he had stretched his long legs out - he had paid for VIP seats from his bulging wallet - and was now immersed in the movie, staring at the screen with that intensity he had when concentrating, but Amy couldn't decide if he liked it or not. It was a long movie and he was apt to be restless. At the entrance he had refused all the snacks though he had offered Amy her choice. "We eat far less than you do," He explained. Amy wondered if the lack of snacking was why people were so much slimmer in those days. Not that she had to worry, she could still eat and not gain weight. While Atlanta burned, she savoured her tortilla chips and melted cheese and sipped her coke through a straw. 

"That was most diverting," he commented as they walked into the night air, "the moving pictures made me feel I was actually there. I must learn more about your civil war. The English also had one - we French are too civilised to have had such a thing."

Amy wondered if this was the right time to talk about The Terror and decided the tone of the evening was too mellow and delightful for such horrors. Let him live in happy ignorance a little while longer.

The night air was pleasant and Amy was about to suggest a drink at her local bar when a voice spoke behind them.  
"Give us your wallet, dude, and we might not shoot you."  
Amy spun round to see two figures, their hooded sweatshirts obscuring their faces. One of them was holding a snub nosed revolver. To her surprise Rochefort silently reached into his jacket. She had expected something more.. He had always seemed so, well, aggressive.

Then suddenly there was an explosion of activity, Rochefort's hand, without his wallet, whipped forward just as he kicked the armed man in the legs. There was a brief struggle and a yell of pain. Amy realised that Rochefort had a knife and was using it. Effortlessly, he seized the gun and the young thug fell to the ground. It all happened so fast she could hardly draw breath.  
"Rochefort, be careful!" she wailed as he turned from the figure on the ground. He now had the gun and the knife pointing at the other assailant who turned and fled before Rochefort could attack him.

"What shall I do with him?" Rochefort said of the first attacker.  
"Leave him. He can't do much harm with his weapon gone."

But Rochefort was squatting beside his victim and had retrieved a number of knives. "Really? You are too trusting my dear Aimée. I should cut his throat but I expect there are laws about retribution." Then turning to his attacker he added "Try that again, boy and I will slit your entrails open." Then he pocketed the weapons and stood up, dusting himself down.

"The evening was going so well," Amy said, "I'm so sorry about this."  
"Don't apologise, Aimée, it was hardly your fault and nothing I cannot handle."

Amy's apartment was in an area favoured by students and not in the best part of the city, but with Rochefort, she felt completely safe. Although he was capable of sudden bursts of extreme violence, she felt no alarm, only a little shame at the feeling of almost atavistic pleasure as she walked beside him. 

"Is that a Catholic church?" Rochefort pointed to a bland, rather uninspiring modern building as they walked past. The sign indicated that it was indeed a church offering Masses. "Would you like to go?" She asked, suddenly wondering if he was at all religious.  
"It would be interesting. Do they have the new Mass?"  
"Fancy you knowing about that! I would have expected you to want it in Latin."  
"The New Mass issued by the Council of Trent, of course it is in Latin. But many people still yearn for the old one even though it's been some years now." He mused for a while, "Hmph! so now that's 'old'. How funny!"  
"You're talking about something instituted over four hundred years ago. The new new Mass is in the local language. You gotta move with the times, dude!" she reached up and pinched his cheek, then pulled her hand away quickly. He smiled in response. 

She wouldn't mention the church again unless he asked. She had a mental picture of the Comte de Rochefort at a worship service with guitars and folk hymns. No, she couldn't picture him joining in.


	4. Chapter 4

It was difficult to pinpoint the exact location in the forest, but he knew he was close when he saw the dead tree. It had ivy clinging to it - he'd studied it while Amy had been tending his wound. Perhaps he'd find a few drops of spilled blood where he had lain. Yes, there it was - a clear disturbance on the forest floor. He breathed in and patted the snub nosed revolver in his pocket. Tucked into his longcoat were the designs for various weapons. Yes, he would have little to fear once he'd got the ammunition in production. It felt good to be wearing his original clothing, even if the shirt was from a cosplay supplier. Carefully he sat on the indent in the ground and waited....

Nothing. Was there something he'd need to do first? Shed blood maybe? With one of the knives he'd taken from the mugger he carefully nicked a small vein in his hand. 

Still nothing.

"I am alone" He repeated, closing his eyes. But the universe wasn't listening today. He sat for an hour, trying everything he could think of from prayers to what seemed dangerously close to spell words.

Eventually he got up, brushed the dust from his hands, and sighed. He wasn't going home after all. To his surprise, as he walked away, he found he cared less than he expected to. He'd have to forego the revenge he'd been planning but perhaps that might have gone badly, as it had before - and what of Anne? He'd never see those sweet blue eyes again. To his surprise he found himself not minding very much. His love had been like an exquisite sickness, one he had not wanted to be cured of. It had filled his mind continually and he had thought he would never be able to exist without that feeling. But he was wrong - his heart was light as a bird and he found he was no longer in love with the Queen of France.

He found himself feeling rather relieved. He was free of it all.

* * * * *

"You will have to watch that wine habit."

Ignoring her comment, Rochefort came back with a bottle of wine and seated himself on the sofa beside her. He opened it and poured a couple of glasses. Amy sighed. He certainly had good taste in wine and he liked to drink it in front of his favourite TV programmes. At the moment he was watching Ken Burns' Civil War documentaries. The haunting melody of 'Ashokan Farewell' filled the room.  
"So do you like our way of life?"  
"Well I miss quite a lot from my past. The lack of constant noise, for one thing. And affordable servants. I miss going to my tailor and ordering exactly what I want to wear, not the cheap rubbish that your stores think I need. And even though you like the convenience of wearing men's clothes, I prefer the sound of a silk hem brushing against a stone floor. Your zips and velcro may be quick, but the pleasure of slowly unlacing a woman will never be known by a modern man."  
"So it's all about wealth and sex and based on social inequality."  
"I suppose so, yes..." He began to trace along the back of her neck, and along the hairline. "You have extraordinarily beautiful lines, Aimée."  
She was sure that her goosebumps betrayed her "You're changing the subject. Tell me what you do like about my time."  
"I like your neck...."

He wasn't going to be sidetracked. She nestled against him and gazed up into his eyes as he slowly bent his head to kiss her. It had been a moment slow in coming, but inevitable, she thought. This is where they had been headed, from the moment she saw him lying injured in the forest. It's why she never could be afraid of him and why she was so reluctant to believe he was lying about himself. 

For a man over four hundred years old, his skin felt remarkably warm. She tightened her arms around him as his kisses went deeper. "Ma chère Aimée, I want you so," he murmured into her neck. Any moment now, she thought happily, they would be switching off Ken Burns and moving to her big bed. It's what she'd been dreaming of for weeks. 

She drew back, "Oh Rochefort - I don't think I can do this...."  
"What do you mean, ma petite?"  
"What if you go back to your own time? You can't stay here - you have no identity and it's impossible to do anything without one. You can't get a driving licence, for instance. You're basically stranded in my apartment and that's no life for you. Your only future is to return to your past - and leave me." There was a slight sob in her voice.  
"I can't go back. I'm trapped here - I went back to that place in the forest and nothing happened. Aren't there people who for a price would forge me a French birth certificate and a passport? I could apply for US citizenship and get my all-important number."  
"You seem to have spent a lot of time ignoring the law," she wondered as he started to drop kisses on her face.  
"I made the law,"  
"Yes but you can't do that here. You have to obey the rules or get into serious trouble. You can't fight your way out with a rapier."

But he wasn't listening and she found there were much better things to do than discuss legalities.

* * * * * *

Despite his progress in adapting to life in the twenty-first century, Amy thought it best if Rochefort didn't join her little student reunion. He was apt to expressing rather retrogressive views after several glasses of red wine.  
"You could go out but you can't return for hours and hours."  
"I'll stay in our bedroom instead and read a French history book."  
Amy had taken some history books from the library to amuse him while she was busy with her thesis. 

He was as good as his word. When the doorbell rang, he disappeared into Amy's bedroom and she heard nothing more from him.

"So, where have you been hibernating? No one's seen you around." Janey was her oldest friend and not much went by her. "I'm sorry - I've been busy with my thesis." Amy replied, imagining her nose growing longer.  
"And I for one have been missing you...." Brad edged closer to her and put a tentative arm on her waist. Amy and he had been half way to dating when she'd met Rochefort.  
She gave a shy laugh. "I love you all but my classes have to come first - for now."  
"Yeah, when she's Doctor Fielding, she'll be a wild party animal!" Billy, who had come with April, teased as he poured himself a drink.  
"Hey - we're almost out of wine..." Amy looked dismayed as she realised the cause, which was sitting in the next room, no doubt laying into a bottle from her carefully bought supplies. "No worries, there's a Seven Eleven down the road. I won't be long..." Quickly grabbing her bag, she left her friends in front of the television with chips and dip and half a bottle of wine.

She'd had to wait in a line before she could get served, so was gone a while longer than she expected. From the sounds of laughter behind her front door it hadn't mattered that she'd been delayed.

They were all seated in a ring on her comfortable furniture. She plonked the heavy carrier bags on the counter, full of snacks and bottles of wine. Fortunately, Rochefort had given her some notes for housekeeping. He was always very generous. 

She twisted the cap from a bottle of wine and went to join her friends. Rochefort was seated among them, on the edge of the sofa, looking as if he had known these people as long as she had. Amy shot him a look. He gave an innocent smile back before turning back to Brad. "This is fascinating about your friend in the CIA" he was saying.  
"Oh we're not supposed to know," Brad admitted, "but he's a lousy liar. We figured he was going either into intelligence or the military as he spent so much time at the firing range."  
"Maybe," Said Billy, "but can you imagine Bob assassinating anyone?"  
"I think they likely have special agents to do the messy work." Amy didn't feel comfortable with how this was going. Secrets and lies - she'd had enough of those lately.  
"It's called wet work I believe." Brad remarked.  
"Whatever. Hey, our local cinema is running a season of old movies. Anyone fancy coming along to one?"

 

"You promised me you would stay out of my party!"  
"I heard you leave and figured someone was bound to snoop and find me skulking in your, our, bed chamber so I joined them. It's just as well, the one called Brad has his eye on you. He was glaring at me by the end of the evening."  
"I hope you didn't say anything?"  
"Like what? challenge him to a duel? It would be beneath me to treat him as a rival. He's a puppy and you wouldn't look at him when you have me. Though I might have to thrash him if he tries anything with you."  
"Oh that's just what I don't want to happen!"  
"Mind you I did learn some interesting things this evening..."

Amy flopped beside him on the sofa and rested her head on his shoulder. "Like how cheap wine tastes, perhaps?"  
"It's still better than most tavern swill from my time. Now this CIA group. I wonder if they would be interested in me? I can shoot straight with an arquebus so a modern rifle will be no problem and I'm not squeamish. There's not much anyone can do to me, after those years in a Spanish prison. Aimée, I can't go on with no income. I'll run out of things to sell and I cannot allow you to maintain me."  
"I can't afford to keep you in fine wines and bespoke tailoring, no."  
"So perhaps there's a chance here. I'll need to drive of course, but as almost everyone can, I'm confident I can be on the road in a couple of weeks."  
"Rochefort - Charles - you're smart, quick-thinking and have many talents, surely there's something honest you can do? Take a law course perhaps?"  
"The law is for real criminals." He snorted.


	5. Chapter 5

Her apartment seemed so quiet without him - and big. She'd grown so used to his presence, filling up the space, dominating every room he was in.

Years ago, she and Janey had made 'shopping lists' with the qualities they wanted in their future husbands. Amy thought that, ironically, Rochefort was almost the exact opposite of the man she'd imagined for herself. Le Comte de Rochefort was arrogant and had a belief in his own intrinsic superiority to about ninety eight percent of the rest of humanity. He drank too much and had elitist taste in almost everything.

Yet.... he had brought colour and life to her existence. He seemed to seize life as a challenge, his energy and interest in everything were infectious. His treatment of people was beginning to change - he could not go on talking to strangers as if they were footmen to be ordered around at whim. And her heart still missed a beat when she looked into those blue eyes. Actually, it missed two or three. 

He didn't say what he would be doing. She didn't expect him to and was glad he was more discreet than Brad's friend. All he had told her was that he had a temporary job in France but expected to be back soon.

It was a Saturday and she had no plans. Her thesis was complete and daytime TV had no charm for her. She waited for the mail to arrive, but there was no note from him. She had never known Rochefort to lie to her; he had promised to come back as soon as he could. She had to believe that but the waiting was awful, especially as he might be in any kind of danger and she would never know until she was told to meet a coffin at the airport.

Just then the doorbell rang. Perhaps it was Janey, come to rescue her from Judge Judy. She opened the door and saw a friendly young man in a motorbike suit.

"This is for you." And he was gone.

Amy took the little package and closed the front door. There was no stamp, just her name and address printed on a label. It had to be from him, delivered by one of his spook friends.

She sat down and slowly opened the packet, half in hope, half in dread. Would it have a 'dear John' letter, signing off from their relationship? She felt the little lump of something he'd enclosed and it felt horribly like her house key.

"Chèrie, I'm stuck in France for a short while longer. Don't worry, I'll be home soon. Meanwhile, I trust the 21st century still has love tokens. Je t'aime, Aimée. Rxx"

Wondering, Amy removed the sliver of tissue to reveal a little brooch, shining in the palm of her hand, 'Aimée'. It was the same one they'd seen that day at the jewellers; he must have bought it secretly and had it re-silvered.

Her name.

Which meant 'loved'.


End file.
